


Noblesse Oblige

by Xiphos



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alternate Universe, Asexual Character, Emperor Bashir, M/M, Mirror Universe, Multi, Other, Three Thrones for Three Quadrants, Threesome - M/M/M, telepathic/empathic sex, universe hopping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-14
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2019-02-02 07:06:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12721929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xiphos/pseuds/Xiphos
Summary: Truly, could there be only two universes?  Could only two be linked, have their fates bound?  In a third Universe, a three-part throne has arisen to combat centuries of utter chaos.  In the Alpha Quadrant, the Emperor is Julian Bashir, genetically engineered heir to Khan Noonian Singh and by far his superior in conquest and in rulership.  Bashir, annoyed at the state of the Mirror Universe and the treatment of Terrans there, decides to send an envoy to make contact and offer them assistance.Unfortunately, the device used to transport his envoys is miscalibrated, leaving three of them- including the most important (and most curious) being in the Gamma Quadrant- stranded in the Prime Universe, unable to complete their task or contact their home.  The second group, hearing nothing to tell them otherwise, transfers easily to the Mirror Universe, and Tora Ziyal faces a difficult reception as a Cardassian-Bajoran hybrid and a military officer among the Terran Resistance.Meanwhile, the continued absence of his beloved makes the Master of the Gamma Quadrant increasingly agitated and his troops edge toward war...





	1. His Radiant Majesty and his Shadows

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. There will be plenty of plot to come. This chapter, however, is mostly AU! Bashir, Garak and Suder enjoying each others' company, and Bashir and Garak plotting mayhem for the Mirror Universe's Klingon-Cardassian Alliance.  
> 2\. Yes, Lon Suder. You remember him from Voyager? :D This version's about as different as this Bashir.  
> 

*

Suder can feel them both as he approaches the Emperor's quarters. The wing where they live is rich with warm, lazy emotions. When he was young, before he met Bashir, he could not have felt any of this as more than muddied pools of color, of emotions he couldn't parse and of which he had no understanding. Now, even in the hall outside, he can pick up the dull gold of Bashir's pleasure, subtle like the sandalwood incense he sometimes burns, and the slow crimson surge of lust underneath it, desire in ebbs and flows, sometimes sparking fierce like an unspoken sigh at something Garak is doing.

When he enters the code at the doorway, pausing to allow for the retinal scan, Suder can see through the dim light, two bodies entwined on the massive Imperial bed. Garak's skin glimmers almost silvery in the shadows of the filmy curtains, the heavier ones drawn aside, that refract the light from exquisite glass lamps gifted to Bashir by some tributary or other. Bashir's skin, in contrast, looks gold, arched bonelessly across a mass of pillows, his arms splayed wide. Garak is worshipping him with his hands, slow caresses that begin as mere affection but have already begun to skate toward something else, as his mouth follows its own patterns of sensuality. Bashir has already had his hands in Garak's hair, he can see, for its usual sleek controlled shape is loosened, dark strands edging over the scales at his orbital ridge.

Suder turns away from them and goes to the broad desk in the corner, removing his own datapad from its place and calling up a list of prisoner transfer details from the Gamma Quadrant. This close, only a few feet distant from the bed, he doesn't have to look to know what is being done. Bashir's mind blends so fluidly with his own, with the ease of years of the silent interaction that Suder prefers, that it is not only the slowly building, languid pleasure that Suder feels from his Emperor, but also the thoughts beneath them, lingering echoes of where Garak has his hands or his clever tongue. He catches a glimpse of himself in Bashir's thoughts as well, a small, wiry form, steel-streaked brown hair above his simple and forbidding black uniform. A tease underneath of affection and amusement spreads more oranges and ambers through Bashir's thoughts.

"Lon," he says quietly, his deep voice never intrusive in the relative quiet of their quarters. "Join us?"

He could make it an order, but Bashir does not. He knows that Suder does not get the same thing out of touch, of physical intimacy, as he or Garak do. That sometimes the shyness and awkwardness of most of a life spent practically missing what Betazoids consider a sensory function had left him skittish about sharing this with them, and sometimes he simply wasn't able to find the edges of his own pleasure without going dark, without tripping into some edged, violent place that could, if left uncontrolled, take his lovers with him. Neither Garak nor Bashir were strangers to violence, to the uncivilized curl of satisfaction in subjugation, though the Emperor at least was not a sadist.

But rather than make it an order, Bashir does repeat himself again, extending one hand with the elegant fingers slightly curved. "Lon," he says.

Beside him, Garak has turned to fix Suder with a lazy, glimmering expression, his caresses slowed as Suder was invited to the bed.

Suder dislikes denying his Emperor anything, and carefully rises from the chair, approaching the other two efen as he catalogues his own emotional responses, flips through the internal workings of his own mind as if it were as transparent as the information on a datapad, as simple as the list of names of new recruits to be trained or criminals to be executed. He does not think he is particularly irritable about anything, or that there are any hidden pitfalls, dark shoals in Bashir's mind that may tug him under. Indeed, Suder can see himself in the Emperor's mind, and can hear an appreciation of his rigid, controlled posture and his efficient grace, which has always puzzled him. In himself he cannot find anything worthy of aesthetic enjoyment, though he is entirely aware of how beautiful Bashir is, of how elegant the subtle nuances are in the way Garak smiles.

It's pleasing, even if it's puzzling, to feel approval in another's mind. Disappointment had been the general outline of his life, disappointment and then fear. Bashir found him beautiful in the way that a well-made weapon might be, and Suder had never minded the comparison.

Suder puts one knee up on the edge of the bed, then the other, kneeling there, out of arm's reach of Garak, who is the nearest to him there. He seeks and finds the Cardassian's pale blue eyes, and tilts his head, trying to remember how to read a person from only the micro-expressions they show. But Garak was never open, never easy to read.

Very gently, his voice sounding as flat as it always did to him when he bothers to speak aloud, Suder says, "Elim." He does not think of either of them by their given names, or use them often. It feels too intimate somehow, the shapes of the words too soft for the men with whom he shares his life. His Radiant Majesty, Emperor of the Alpha Quadrant, General of the Tri-partate Throne, iss more than merely 'Julian'- and the co-head of the Order of Shadows, the man whose name whispered in the dark is synonymous with an information network that has outstripped and demolished the Obsidian Order: for this man, 'Elim' seems inadequate. However, Suder finds it simplest to follow Bashir's social cues. He had called Suder 'Lon,' so... Lon... calls Garak 'Elim.'

He swallows, still making eye contact. "Elim," he says again, trying to make the name feel right, feel intimate. "May I?"

One of the scale ridges over Garak's orbital sockets lifts, and his faint smile widens a little at the edges. Garak is perhaps the only person to whom Suder is accustomed to speaking mostly aloud, because his mind is impenetrable to the telepath. It is like a fortress with a thousand gates, defenses as smooth and solid as those of a doorless, windowless room. That is, until Garak chooses to open those doors. At first there is only a subtle sense of change in the room, then wall after wall falls back, as if something were unfurling, the petals opening from some strange carnivorous plant, and there at last are Garak's thoughts, so carefully guarded, now as present to Suder's mind as the Emperor's.

Garak's mind is cool compared to Bashir's, and instead of floating cadences of color, impressions of form, thoughts as certain and as sure as if the mere act of thinking them made them indelible fact, Garak's are woven and layered and nuanced. He is capable of thoughts that seem at times to entirely contradict each other, of a symphony of resonances and counter-plans and mental traps, all believed at once, and also of emotions so vast and rich that Suder is certain he could one day become drunk on them.

This night, Garak's mind is a pale rainbow with a slightly sharp edge, amusement and desire that could cut. Suder can feel Julian's skin beneath Garak's hand, and Garak's hand touching Julian's skin. He closes his eyes and breathes in deeply, then projects love as clearly as he can, trailing mental fingers over the opaque, glassy facets of Garak's mind in a sort of caress. Garak purrs, eyes lidded, and Bashir reaches up to cup the side of the Cardassian's face.

As they gaze at each other, Lon catches each of their thoughts, affectionate and loving, about each other's eyes, and repeats his gentle mental caress, this time on Julian. The Emperor moans, as mentally sensitive as ever, and his beautiful, well-formed toes- one of Suder's favorite things about him- curl in the silk sheets.

Without thinking much about it, Lon bends and starts to kiss the top of Bashir's foot, each beautiful elegant little toe, the faint edge of the nails pressed against his lower lip.

Above him, Julian and Elim kiss. They have been kissing for a very long time, and they know how to kiss each other. Their lips and teeth and tongues know what to do. They can make it lazy and languorous as it had been when Suder entered the room, or they can do it as they do now: pulling out every trick, every sensuous urge. Garak bites lightly on Bashir's lower lip. Julian licks slowly over Elim's tongue, laps the top of his mouth, teases beneath his tongue. Julian flicks his tongue in Elim's mouth like a snake. Elim taps his tongue, the tip of it, with his own, then pulls back till only their tongues, cool outside their mouths, are touching, with a sweet electricity and strange indefinable taste.

Lon nibbles at Bashir's instep. Garak's hand curls through Lon's hair, tugs at it. He strokes through the Cardassian's mind again, giving him the admiration and love he feels, and Garak sighs in pleasure.

"Lon," Julian murmurs. "Please... join us."

Suder starts in concern, what is he doing?-, then smiles. He curls around their so different, so beautiful minds, and then he becomes the bridge, pulling them into each others' thoughts, so that not only can he feel how much Julian likes it when Elim bites his upper lip, or how much Elim loves the way Julian's nails drag at the scales at his neck, but each of them experience the other. Suder does not think they experience it quite like he does, but it is more than enough. Thoughts meld, love and pleasure and enjoyment collate and blend like brush-strokes in wet paint.

~Do you wish to be touched tonight, our guardian?~ Elim thinks. He thinks it smoothly, while kissing and biting lines across Julian's golden skin. ~Our beloved, beloved guardian.~

Suder is gratified that Garak asks. He comes a little closer and curls his fingers over Garak's calf, and then tilts his head into the caress that smoothes through his hair and over his cheek, the thumb that teases his lower lip and parts his mouth. His eyes, which had been shut, open, and he sees how Garak sees them: black, beautiful. ~The only man I can trust to keep our family safe, by my side.~

It isn't as clunky as that, what Garak says. It is one clear word, in Kardasi, but Suder knows what it means and loves it. He nuzzles against Garak's hand like a kitten and nods faintly. ~You can touch me,~ he tells them both.

And they do.  Climax after climax, mental and physical, drag them all deeper into the tangle of entertwined pleasure, until spent limbs drape sweat-drenched and filthy across the bed, and Suder gently strokes the Emperor's mind to restfulness and Garak's to amused stillness.

"I had better clean him up," Garak says, softly. "In fact, you both."

"I can walk," Suder says, and hates the sound of his voice, as if it ruins the sweetness of what has passed.

Garak chuckles. "And Julian, if he were awake, could carry us both, one in each arm, but let us be spared that indignity." He leans over, fast, and pecks Suder at the corner of the mouth.

Lon doesn't kiss, not often, but he likes the curl of sweet warmth that it leaves, that Garak feels, when he kisses. Likes it even as the mental barriers come back up, a thousand icy walls slammed back into place. Garak kisses him again, fully on the lips, and gazes down at him with his cool, appraising blue eyes.  Now what those eyes reflect is all Suder gets.

"I'll get his Majesty first," Garak says in his smooth, purring voice. "Just rest. You don't... exercise with us often, after all, my love."

Garak lifts Bashir easily, who only stirs a little in his grasp, and gets him into the vast, beautiful recessed baths. Only a moment or two later, already enjoying the heat as it soaks into Bashir's skin and heats him to the core, Suder feels his lover lift him as well, turning him first to strip him properly, and then holding him easily before easing them both into the water.

Suder drifts. Because it is safest, and because he loves these men he is with, he thinks of nothing at all.

 

*

 

Breakfast is an uncustomarily lavish affair. Lon isn't with them, gone off to deal with the unpleasant duties that make up his dangerous life. But Garak sits with Julian at a tiled table on a small veranda, overlooking a lush and verdant hydroponics garden. Below them, flowers spill in a rush of colors, herbs twine, starting to bud at their tops, leaves lush and ready to harvest, and vegetables grow fulgent and rich with nutrients. The air is redolent with a thousand perfumes, from the cloying notes of Tarkalian orchids to the sharp pleasant bitterness of tomato leaves.

Julian is loose-limbed and sated from the night before, and also lounges with the predatory, ready atmosphere that good sex sometimes gives him. Garak almost believes that leaving his lovers brainless with bliss is how Bashir prepares himself for momentous decisions. He certainly has an inordinate amount of energy, and pure appetite, shoveling eggs into his mouth in a way that dismays Garak in sympathy for the chef. The Emperor can hardly taste them that way.

Flash of silver, chew, swallow. Appreciative smile. The eggs are suddenly absent on the plate, and Garak hesitates on his own next bite, savoring the delicate cream and shellfish sauce on the omelette, as he sees the toast go the same way, inhaled between ravishing lips. He feels his eyes widen, though it is hardly the first time he's witnessed Julian's metabolism at work. There was, he reminds himself dryly and with only a mental shudder, the matter of the three wild boars after the final battle with the Romulans.

"My dear," he says carefully, taking another bite of omelette on to his spoon, "is something the matter?"

Julian finishes his second bit of toast and snaps Garak the smile of a shark, not the slightest bit friendly, but utterly exultant. "It offends me," he says.

Garak blinks. A mere second's thought has the train of the conversation. Something a wayfarer told them recently, after an accidental sojourn through the dimensions. He smiles back, and suspects his own expression is sweeter than the Emperor's, but no more soothing. "Ah, that little... what do they call it? The Alliance?" He savors the bite of egg and sweet shellfish, the spiced cream of the sauce. And keeps his smile, half-lidded eyes focused on the Emperor. "You dislike the idea of your kind being slaves? Resistance?"

Bashir makes a dismissive sound. "My kind. That's-- complicated. But yes, in the broadest strokes, it annoys me that humans-- Terrans-- whatever they call themselves, are being treated that way. Kathryn-- Weyoun-- none of us care much for those sort of slave states, those sorts of hounding, genocidal expeditions." He scoops one last strawberry from his plate and makes cool, aggressive eye contact with Garak as his teeth part the red, sweet flesh, lips drawn back in the faintest of sneers. His head tilts as he chews, swallows. "And, if I'm not entirely mistaken," he drawls, "you and Odo are not fans either."

Garak smiles primly and inclines his head. His mind is already full of possibilities, of plans. What will have to be done next. The device for transport must be replicated, and with several charges. No- not replicated. It must be improved. They could not risk their agent stranded, lost without the proper coordinates. Their agent needed to be properly coached. A full exploration of the Terran Resistance must yield an understanding of their numbers, their resources, so that they could be bolstered without overwhelming them with the sheer depth of power the Empire could offer them.

And someone must be chosen to go. Someone charismatic, and eager, and someone who could be done without for a few weeks. But someone who can operate complex technology and react well in a fight. Someone who can keep his or her head.

"Do you think they would shoot Ziyal on sight?" he posits calmly. "She would be the best choice."

Julian frowns. "She would. Why don't we send a messenger first, with some samples and messages, so they know what to expect from her? If nothing else, they cannot deny she could infiltrate their enemies very easily."

"Or as easily lead them to battle," Garak agrees. His next bite of omelette tastes better, imagining his beautiful protegee bringing an entire new universe to heel. If only he could be there to put the final phaser bolt in the final skull.

"Shall we see if the others want to offer their own aid?" Julian asks.

Garak hands his beloved his own plate of fruit, sans one strawberry. Really, if Julian is going to tease, he'll get some of his own medicine right back. He nods after the motion. "It seems only fair," he purrs.

Bashir reaches up and grabs Garak's wrist, just as the Cardassian is drawing the strawberry tip slowly between his sharp lips. His eyes glimmer dark and hot.

"Is it wrong," says the Emperor, "that I wish to see your lips slicked once again with a different red, my dearest Director of Shadows?"

Garak relinquishes the strawberry and teases his tongue along Julian's fingers. His smile is wicked and cold. "It is certainly wrong, my beloved Emperor. Certainly."

"You desire it too."

"Of course."


	2. Silver and Gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Preparations are made for the trip to the Mirror Universe. Jian, Domina of the Gamma Quadrant, has plans of their own.

Liesen Ree was excited. Inordinately excited, she had to admit, and made an effort to keep the squirming, bubbling feelings hidden behind a wall of apparent calm. She could tell, from the dull trails of amusement she picked up from the senior Imperial staff around hwe that she was not doing a terribly good job. She wanted to pout, to resent their good humor in the face of her antsy eagerness, but she didn't. This was the first major, important mission she had been chosen to spearhead, the end of several long years of training, and moreover, it was in an entirely different universe! She would be exploring, making contact and alliance, with beings like yet unlike those she knew, as far away as was possible. Certainly something to write home to her mate about.

It made it difficult to concentrate on the lengthy, monotonous and largely technical discussion of inter-universe travel theory that they had decided to start off the briefing detailing. Around her, she could pick up a similar sort of nerves and excitement from Ziyal's team, the second wave so to speak, after she and Sheridan broke the ice. For Liesen's part, she was eager to get past the theory, which was unimportant to her as she would only be calibrating the device for the return trip, and on to a closer discussion of the political and sociological situation on Terrok Nor.

This was where Ree would shine; though only a quarter Betazoid, she was a skilled diplomat with a light touch. She had been originally cherry-picked for the Shadow's Claws, but her squeamishness and tender heart drummed her out of early training, transported instead into diplomatic corps. The young woman remembered those first days with a certain nervousness that was dwarfed by her fear when Lon Suder himself entered the room. Expressionless and without saying anything, he leaned against the wall by the door. He looked insectoid, his black Betazoid eyes, purer than her own, in a face that was a pale mask. Because it was polite, and because she had no intention to be impolite to a man as terrifying as Suder, Ree greeted him telepathically, diffidently.

He replied with equal politeness and a gentle admonition to pay attention to the briefing.

 _Oh!_ They were talking about the political situation now. Liesen turned back, trying to give it her full attention and to memorize everything she heard, even if her stomach was a mass of nerves for more than one reason now.

Soon enough, she was fascinated by an alternate history, one that included people, events and places that were familiar to her, yet entirely different to the way they had been in her own worlds. The schism, it seemed, dated back at the birth of the Federation, yet there were differences too. Vast differences in the Gamma Quadrant in particular. Despite her rapt interest, Ree was increasingly certain she would forget something important, and bit her lip.

 _Ree._ This was Suder. _There won't be a test. This is merely background knowledge. Garak will brief you on your mission itself in two hours, after the official greet with the Emperor and the Dominus._

She nodded, trying to let that sink in. Quickly, her bubbling excitement was being weighted with an equal pool of cold worry, coalescing in the pit of her stomach. It felt like stage fright, only infinitely worse. The weight of their expedition was becoming clear to her, ever more so by the litany of highest names associated with it. Elim Garak himself would brief them on their mission parameters! They were invited to a gathering- a meal- with two of the rulers of the Tri-partate Throne, to celebrate their journey. It would, she was certain, quickly become too much.

She wished Mareia would be there.

 _If it will help,_ said Suder, in his uncanny way. _I'll transfer her last interrogation of the shift to Vorak, so she can attend the greet._

Liesen knew she was radiating appreciation. Mareia had arranged for an early shift so she could see her mate off before they left, but would not have been finished until very close to the planned time of departure. The idea of sitting near her at the festivities took a little bit of nerves away, though there was still that lingering sour, curdled fear in her belly, that worry that she was not up to this task. Not up to taking lead in something so important.

She half expected Suder to say something to that doubt, but he did not. In fact, when Ree glanced back after focus for several minutes on a detailed discussion of the personalities within the Terrok Nor branch of the Terran Resistance, the Emperor's Shadow was gone.

*

Jian whirled around in the mouth of the shuttle bay, steps light and easy. Their long hair glittered in the dull lights, catching the eyes of all the Vorta and Jem'Hadar in attendance, particularly Weyoun. It had not been easy to create that 'hair.' Like most of their race, Jian had found imitating a specific object, or animal, or being, easier than inventing a solid-like form of their own. Unlike those others they had met- their progenitor before the Hunt, and Odo, they were obsessed with it. Perhaps they had been too young when the Changeling race, the Founders, were practically eliminated. Perhaps it was merely something in their own personality, which embraced artistry and creativity, attempting to blend things they had seen in this species or that to some cohesive whole.

Jian's eyes were grey, like Odo's, and their skin a similar sort of ruddy flesh tone. They had delicate scale ridges at the eyes, jaw and throat, echoing being partially raised from a mere infant by a Cardassian. A hint of the Bajoran nasal ridges softened the stern bridge and made it beautiful. Then, having taken as their primary mate a Vorta, the Dominus of the Gamma Quadrant, Jian had tried to find ways to enhance their appearance to entice and to please their husband. Bright, sparkling hair to catch the dull Vorta eyes. Gold, wavy. Making that texture had taken years. It still required effort to remember to make it light, so it danced when they whirled in pleasure. And the scent. Replicating a scent was difficult, but of course not impossible. With their own body, Jian could have replicated tastes as well, and did, when it suited them. But their smell was particularly pleasant to Weyoun, soothing, and they enjoyed the way he often relaxed as Jian approached him closely.

Jian was being deliberately breathtaking. They wanted their companions as off guard as possible. It was regrettable, a little, how angry Weyoun would be, but the moment they heard of another universe, one where more of their kind still existed, they were determined to go there. Later, they would make proper amends. Now, they would be at their most playful, a little touch of chaos to make everyone forget quite how calculating they could be when they wished to be. It was good that Odo wasn't here, but was still on Bajor with Admiral Kira. Odo would see through their game in an instant.

Garak might be difficult as well, but Garak did not understand precisely how much Jian longed to meet Changelings-Founders- who had been raised in their native community. He did not understand how much Jian wanted to meet Keevan, who had sacrificed his life to allow Jian to live. He would be suspicious and would watch Jian closely, because mischief and chaos were the Domina's stock and trade, even if their care for the remnant Jem'Hadar and their love for the community that had built from the ashes of the old Dominion was also at their heart. But he would not suspect the calculation that was such a part of Jian's plan. They would be a part of this sojourn.

It was easy to smile and to flutter, thinking of that. As they stilled the pirouette, they caught Weyoun's violet eyes, fixed on them with fondness, and came briefly into his arms. A light kiss, the sort of casual affection the Vorta enjoyed, in a distant sort of way, the same way Jian themself did. Sense was odd and indefinite, pressure and resistance and physics, and without sentiment beyond it, meant nothing more to the Changeling than it might to form feet to walk gracefully across a floor. The sentiment, the response, each form drew, was what pleased Jian.

But Weyoun was special. Weyoun was not so easily dazzled. To dazzle him was a great prize, bringing with it the great reward of a loyalty and love beyond conscious measure.

Jian sizzled under those lavender eyes, squirmed with the faint curve of the pale, thin lips. Their husband was another potential danger, immensely brilliant and with lifetimes of strategy in diplomacy and manipulation. Jian must be careful to keep his focus elsewhere, since Weyoun knew well enough how his beloved felt about others of their kind, and how they longed to join with them.

Slender fingertips stroked over the blue, somewhat iridescent covering Jian had formed for his clothing. Weyoun said, "My love is so eager."

Jian smiled again, tossed their hair, remembering to keep it light, to make it glint and glitter. "Can you blame me?" they said. "We do not know the state of the Dominion, or whatever it might be, in their world. But it is possible that the Link still functions. I am... you know I am fascinated to hear of it."

Weyoun nodded. He stroked the same long line again, a little more firmly, his lips taking on a purse that was nearly sadness. "Would you leave us, for the Link, if you could have it? Leave the world we have created, the freedom you have brought...?" He gestured to the Jem'Hadar, though with a curtailed, vague sort of lack of interest, eyes wide and still focused entirely on Jian.

Jian shook their head. "No, my liege." They leaned in again and kissed the corner of those slightly pouted lips to startle them out of that disapproving shape. "I'm only curious."

It was true, as far as it went. But as Jian swept out of the shuttle bay and into the hall toward the greeting chamber, they already thought of how they could slip attention and become a bag or a silk scarf or a forgotten datapad. How they could see, with their own eyes, what it was to be of their species. They would _not_ relinquish what they had built here, those who had saved and loved them, but they would be _damned_ if they did not see what might have been.

*

Julian brushed his hair, and looked critically of at the length off the end of his hairbrush. He did not mind it long, but past the shoulders was pushing it a little. He considered calling in his barber once more, to trim it, but decided to check the effect against today's robe first. In truth, he was not that vain. He knew his own beauty, how it guided the eyes, but knew more that what made people stare was something injected into him, pressed into his veins against his will as a child.

Something deadly that had grown its own destiny. Something needed, when the ancient wars plumed once more out of all control.

Today's robe was gold, a memory of his ascension to this throne. When he and Kathryn and Weyoun had made their formal alliance, they had stepped to a dais bearing three tall pillars. Julian wore gold, with a saffron sash and a red cord bearing his weapons. Kathryn wore silver, the cybernetics that had eaten part of her body black and stark against the fragile color, yet that new, innocent color suited her still. Weyoun wore a bloody bronze hue, one that shimmered but resisted the urge to give it a human name. Bashir, their General. Janeway, their Judge. Weyoun, their Architect.

He did not wear the saffron scarf today, or a weapon belt. Instead, he wore a white cord and slippers, and took his throne with all necessary grace though without unnecessary pomp. He was entertaining visiting royalty, after all, and the trappings of power palled in interest after time, subsumed by the more wicked delight Julian took at the thought of discussing with Weyoun all the nasty little things they could do to an enemy, should the Resistance decide to accept their alliance.

It had been far too long since they'd had a worthy foe, any of them. Julian wanted to see Garak's eyes cold as he held a phaser, wanted to hear the honeyed delight Weyoun would give to eviscerating an enemy's stronghold, wanted to see Ziyal with her hands bright red, or Suder shuddering, his entire self, glowing mentally as he only did when he killed and killed and killed.

Obviously, Julian wanted peace in their realms. These were old, dark dreams, things he hardly missed, easy to subsume beneath the purr of Garak's conversation on the classics, Ziyal's saber dance, Kathryn's latest photo of her puppies...

A target in another universe entirely would be just the thing.

He settled on the throne, smiling into the tips of his curved fingers, as he awaited his guests.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I attempted to make this present tense, like the first chapter, and hated it. Therefore, I will probably edit the first chapter, to fit with the rest, as past. 
> 
> I've now introduced you to our main two OCs for the fic (there are a few others, somewhat more in the limelight, including Liesen's wife Mareia and several techs and general parts in all parts of three universes). My intention is to make them fit as seamlessly with the worlds I'm building and the various versions of each canon character you enjoy as possible. I would adore feedback on how that's working. 
> 
> Jian, I'm aware, takes up rather a lot of space for an OC. I do hope they can charm you enough to make up for it. ;)


End file.
